In a slow game of hide and seek,
The wind, turned gentle breeze,
peeks its head into every crevice,
whispers along the river bank
and ruffles the boughs of pines
like a grandfather’s hand
ruffling his grandson’s hair.

Here, there, then gone so quietly
it is hard to believe it’s not a dream,
That playful wind must be part imp,
Warm as the noonday sun, it touches
the skin in a laughing caress,
then skitters along the garden hedge,
edging the boxwood with rippled stems,

and I, feeling wild as a new spring colt,
try to chase it down, but alas, I can
only see where it’s been
and by the time I get there it is gone.
As if making sure I won’t lose track,
it circles back and whispers,
“Catch me if you can.”

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